


a hyperbolic spiral

by consumptive_sphinx



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Dubcon Kissing, Makeouts inspired by the work of M.C. Escher, Other, Porn Without Plot, Porn with impossible geometry, Xeno, dubcon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-01-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 04:48:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,000
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22291348
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/consumptive_sphinx/pseuds/consumptive_sphinx
Summary: "What would happen if I got to the center of the spiral anyways?" said the boy in fascinated tones. "Would it kill me?""It'd wipe out the whole Earth," the mother said solemnly, in the tones of somebody who didn't want to discourage this interest in mathematics no matter where it had come from, and would go to any lengths to play along. "It would destroy the rest of the Milky Way too. Enough sidewalk chalk in one place would form a supermassive black hole that pulled everything else into it.""It destroys the whole world if you draw it?" said the boy, looking very impressed by this."That's right!" said the mother. "A hyperbolic spiral is one of the simplest kinds of entities where it's easy to draw part of them, but if you drew one in too much detail it would destroy you and your world and everything else you knew existed."— G.T. Walkeror, Jon has an encounter he's not sure how to feel about. set during episode 101.
Relationships: Michael/Jonathan Sims
Comments: 8
Kudos: 99





	a hyperbolic spiral

“Good. Right this way,” Michael told him, smiling a smile that was not really a smile. 

“Open it. Open it, and all this will be over,” it said, and Jon swallowed and tightened his fingers around the doorknob — the metal was strangely warm, almost like touching another human being, although it was as smooth as a mannequin’s plastic — and the door clicked open. 

Jon stepped inside, kept his breathing even — it would be no help to anyone if he panicked, although he could feel his options closing like doors with every breath he took — and then the literal, insofar as anything about Michael was literal, door shut behind him. 

There was a moment of quiet, in the endless corridors alone, while Jon breathed carefully and tried not to think too hard about how exactly he was going to die. Two, three. It might have been the first quiet he had felt since before the circus; Nikola Orsinov had never stopped talking in that high-pitched singsong voice that was not really hers, and the rain had beat down and the coffin that was not for Jon had sung and the building had creaked and always there had been high shrill laughter around him. Four. Five. Six, and his breathing was beginning to come evenly without conscious effort, and then Jon’s back was against the wall and Michael was looming over him — Michael had always loomed over him, but here where the ceiling was one foot above Jon’s head and Michael was easily two it seemed to matter more — and there was one long-fingered hand spread over Jon’s chest, both a cage and not a cage; it was not so strong that he could not have pushed away from it, but Michael’s fingers were sharp enough that he didn’t dare to try. 

Another silent moment, with Michael's hand over Jon's chest, and another, and then it kissed him. 

Being kissed by Michael was falling downward through an endless vertical corridor, or perhaps floating in one; there was the sight of doors rushing past him, sometimes splintering in Jon’s grip as he scrabbled at the frames looking for any purchase at all to grip onto, but not the vertigo or the air-feel of falling, none of the breathlessness of the Vast, only the infinity of Michael’s corridors and open doorways that could not be grasped or gone through. 

This could have been a metaphor. Regrettably, it wasn't one, and as the doors rushed by or perhaps only the vision of doors rushed by Jon caught his breath and — did not push forward against Michael’s mouth again, because he didn’t want to be kissing Michael at all much less to kiss it again, and because he was still falling or floating or whichever, and because there was still that too-sharp cage of a hand around his chest pinning him back to the wall, and because he wasn’t sure how he would go about it if he tried. 

Instead he reached out, tentatively, and put a hand on Michael's chest; it laughed that headachey laugh. "Go on," it said, and didn't reach for his hand, and Jon wasn't sure if he was grateful to avoid those too-sharp fingers or if he wished there was some way he could  _ go on _ without moving his hand himself. 

Something in the back of head told him  _ down, and press, _ and he did, running his fingers down Michael's warped — sternum? it might have been a sternum, or something like one — and pushed his thumb into the not-skin there. It opened like a door — no, not like a door, it  _ was  _ a door, and Jon heard the creak of a door opening somewhere to his left, and inside of Michael's chest there was an endless corridor lined with doors and tiled with regular pentagons just like the ones under Jon's feet, and inside there was Michael standing over Jon with his hand still caging Jon's body and Jon staring into Michael's open chest — he didn't want to look over to where he heard the door open; he pressed his hand over the patch of skin that should have been there and wasn't, heard the door close again and didn't look back down at it, instead turning his eyes upward to where Michael was grinning at him with either too many teeth or too few but certainly not the correct number. 

It moved one finger and did not pierce the skin under Jon’s chin and then Jon was falling again, through a corridor that twisted but did not end, through Michael and into Michael and his hand was still on its chest and of course he couldn't feel a heartbeat or the rise and fall of breath but Michael was still warm — feverishly hot, in fact — and its skin felt  _ alive. _ After a month of the Circus, and of Nikola Orsinov whose skin was draped over cold hard plastic and slid when she moved, Jon could cry at the feel of it. Might have been crying at the feel of it, in fact. 

Michael didn't seem to care; Jon wasn't sure whether he would have wanted it to. He closed his eyes and did not open them; the corridors were changing, still he was falling through Michael but he was falling through himself as well, and he didn't want to see what physical act this corresponded to, or if it corresponded to anything at all. 

He closed his eyes and did not open them until the falling ended, until the only feeling was of tile under his feet and a hand over his torso, and then he opened his eyes to see Michael looking down at him with something on its face that he couldn’t name and didn’t care to. 

When Jon was returned to the archives, the memory of falling still on his lips and moisturizer still on his skin, he didn’t tell the full story of why he was so shaken. It wasn’t as if he really needed to. 


End file.
